


Dibs!

by kakaitalover



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Minor Drug-Induced Shenanigans, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:49:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2236308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakaitalover/pseuds/kakaitalover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh? And why not, wizard?"</p><p>In defense of the actions I took next, I was running high off of adrenaline and...other things. I licked my palm and quickly wiped it on Marcone's face. He didn't even try and take off my hand or anything. Huh, I guess he really did like me.</p><p>"Because I called dibs!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The warehouse nearby was on fire, but, and I want this to be clear, it was not my fault. Between the mortal drugs Torelli's thugs had pumped into me an hour ago, the magical pixie dust (thank you, Lea) from my hasty escape through the Nevernever, and the fact that it was my third night running on less than an hour of sleep, I thought it was pretty impressive that I was upright and more or less coherent, let alone aiming in the right general direction. Especially since the three elements were combining in decidedly interesting ways. Really, it was kind of awesome how well I was handling it, especially in the middle of a fight, and I shared this fascinating insight with my compatriots, possibly with a somewhat loopy grin. Marcone, Cujo, Thomas, and Murphy did not share my optimism, going by the increasingly alarmed and concerned glances I was getting. Well, blank-with-undertones-of-alarm in Marcone's case, but I knew he liked me really. This group-wide consternation may have been because I was rambling a bit and swaying like a drunken tree in a hurricane, but it doesn't really matter because it was at this point that the giant, winged, blue kangaroo-thing dropped out of the sky to interrupt us.

“Baron Marcone,” it – she? – trumpeted. “I have found you now, and I demand vengeance for my brother's death!”

She, I decided. There was something vaguely feminine about the voice, if you could say that about something that sounded like a brass band.

“Was your brother the green thing with the horns that was chewing on Cujo's kevlar, or the slimy purple one that was trying to sneak up on Murph?” I wondered earnestly. “Or maybe the vomit-colored yuck that tried to brain me with a light post. I didn't like that guy. Also, what is with the technicolor parade? Gay pride is _next_ month.”

My clever and not at all accidental off-topic rambling succeeded in diverting the Giant Blue Kangaroo, and she paused for a moment before continuing, sounding much less sure of herself.

“Um, I am here to avenge my brother's death four days ago at your command, and –”

I interrupted again, punctuating my speech with broad but clear, descriptive, and not even remotely ridiculous gestures. “Woah, hang on, are we talking about the whatsit that was munching on people in the subways? Because that was very not cool and the guy pretty much brought it on himself when he ate a bunch of John's henchmen. John likes his henchmen. It's hard to find people who hench well, and he takes it personally when they get nibbled on.”

By now John and the rest were eyeing me with poorly-concealed expressions of mingled horror, awe, and amusement. There definitely was not that much of the latter. Shut up.

Kanga was obviously feeling decidedly wrong-footed and awkward, but opted to push on. “Uh, well, I cry challenge in defense of my elder brother's honor, so, so prepare yourself for death, you cur, for I shall –”

“Hey, wait, no, you can't kill him!” This was an odd tune coming from me, and I wish I had sounded less upset about the prospect, but the guy _had_ just risked his life and limb on request to help us take down Purple-and-slimy, Pukey, and Green-and-horny. Uh, I mean horned. Yes. Ew. So I figured I owed him at least a _little_ consideration. It was also clearly the wrong tack to take, because she drew herself up like a hot-air balloon of offended righteousness.

"Oh? And why not, wizard?"

In defense of the actions I took next, I was running high off of adrenaline and...other things. I licked my palm and quickly wiped it on Marcone's face. He didn't even try and take off my hand or anything. Huh, I guess he really did like me.

"Because I called dibs!"

Before I continue, take a moment to imagine the frozen tableau these words inspired. To my right, Murphy and Thomas were hovering somewhere between worried about the potential attacker, boggling at my defense of a man I have repeatedly claimed to hate, fretting about said man's reaction to my essentially licking his face, and laughing their asses off at my substance- and deprivation-induced actions. True friends, both of them. To my left, the most dangerous mortal in Chicago (if not pretty much anywhere) stood poker-faced with my spit drying on his cheek. And mouth, a bit. Beyond him, Cujo appeared to be courting apoplexy, turning a purplish red that clashed horribly with his hair. His complexion only darkened when I kindly informed him of this fact. Some people have no gratitude.

From the direction of the big flying kangaroo came a puzzled, “Dibs?”

“Yep,” I informed her, nodding sagely. “That means I get first call and final say on the vengeancy stuff, because he wronged me first.”

“What did he do?” she persisted, glancing between us suspiciously.

“Uh.” I glanced left, hoping for input. Surely the scumbag would at least offer inspiration – anything that might help.

Marcone turned to eye me blandly. “Yes, Mr Dresden, what did I do?”

Jerk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He stood me up,” I supplied, a little smugly.

My mind flew rapidly over recent engagements with the scumbag. There had to be something, right? The man offended me by drawing breath, he had to have done _something_ recently that I could claim to have been wronged by! There was the meeting to coordinate this little dust-up, but demanding an irritating level of politeness (“pretty please” my ass, I'd get him for that) wasn't actually reprehensible, at least not technically. Then there was – no, there _wasn't!_

“He stood me up,” I supplied, a little smugly.

Dead silence met my response.

“Stood you ... up?” That squeaked inquiry was Thomas' input. Murphy was too busy not falling over as she dealt with her sudden and unprecedented asthma attack. I didn't dare even look at Cujo.

I nodded like a bobble-head, still swaying, and elaborated.

“Last week. Dinner. Remember, _John?_ ”

I could see him connect the dots. Last week had been a meeting between Warden and Baron at a neutral restaurant, which Marcone had never made it to on account of getting caught up in the first part of the latest attempted coup by Torelli (which attempt had eventually led to me being drugged not two hours ago, so I wasn't completely sanguine about it). I had of course been perfectly content with this turn of events at the time, but I was now willing to bring it up in slightly warped fashion as an abominable slight. Whatever works, right?

“This is … a grave insult?” This time the question came from Kanga, and I did my level best to sober up a little as I answered.

“ _Oh_ , yeah, _very_ big deal. 'S'when somebody sets up a date and then doesn't show for it, doesn't even give prior notice. Big-time discourtesy.” (Thomas' strangled yelp of “Date!” went ignored, as did Murph's renewed wheezing). I was pretty certain this was a good choice of slights – she didn't actually seem upset about her brother's death so much as pretty sure that she was supposed to be, and I'd been getting a distinct “romantic adolescent girl” vibe – and sure enough she seemed appalled at Marcone's callousness.

“That's terrible! How could he? How could you?” She addressed this last to Marcone himself, who managed a fairly creditable job of looking contrite.

“Should have seen what I had to do to make up for it last time I – _accidentally_ – did it to my ex-girlfriend. Flowers, jewelry, expensive dinners, heartfelt apologies, help with her work, the whole shebang,” I continued mournfully, subtly stressing the “accidentally” because playing for sympathy works much better when you haven't committed the very act you're objecting to.

“Well you certainly deserve all that and more,” she asserted forcefully, still giving Marcone the stink-eye. I was liking this girl better and better.

“Yeah,” I blithely agreed, “so you can see how the whole getting-stood-up thing kind of trumps the death of a guy who actually started the fight by challenging Ma- John, here, by eating his minions. It's really very fair and logical.” I beamed at her, willing her to agree and leave so I could go home and sleep until the world stopped spinning. It was starting to make me a little nauseous.

A hand under my elbow steadied things somewhat, and I turned to thank Thomas, since I could hear Murphy still gasping for breath to my right. Only to encounter a pair of very green eyes and a smirking visage.

“I do apologize for upsetting you so, Harry,” Marcone all but purred at me. Too close. He was way, way too close. I attempted to sway backward, since I was doing so much of that anyway, but he only pulled me closer and my balance wasn't anywhere near good enough to oppose it.

“I assure you I will do my best to rectify that.” I could smell his breath. It really wasn't fair that I couldn't even claim he needed a tic-tac.

“Don't call me Harry. Also, I'm going to throw up,” I informed him, and he somehow managed to dodge out of the way and get me into a reasonable position for the act in time for me to miss him entirely (and myself as well, so there's that). The hand rubbing circles into the small of my back was completely unnecessary, but I wasn't in any state to argue just then.

By the time I was upright again the world had steadied somewhat and Kanga had vanished. Shame really, she seemed like a girl with good taste. Cujo had brought the car around for Marcone, and said mobster headed toward it once he was sure I wasn't going to face-plant, and once I and my friends had emphatically turned down his offer of a ride. He paused before closing the door though, long enough to throw one last jibe my way. It was definitely a jibe. He just has a frighteningly good poker-face. It even throws me sometimes.

“Any particular favorites in regards to flowers, Harry, or are you a traditionalist?”

“Don't call me Harry, _John_ – and it's roses all the way, naturally,” I sniffed, smart-assing him right back. Later I would regret that. The man has no concept of when to back down.

Right then, however, I grabbed my brother – who was still freaking out about the “date” thing, you'd think he'd recognize a clever bit of subterfuge when he heard it – to use as a walking stick and toodled my fingers sarcastically at the departing vehicle. Most of the drugs and pixie dust were out of my system, but the world still had a happy radiance about it and I was feeling rather loopy again now that the nausea had passed, so I stumbled away with a broad grin on my face and maybe a (manly!) giggle or two – but seriously, it was just the drugs. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Especially if it's Murphy.


End file.
